


Gaining, Slowly (A Sequel to Loss)

by undun



Series: Losing and Gaining [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when John thought he was getting his life under control, the unthinkable occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Sherlock series 2, including The Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Dedicated to Luthien, who is an inspiration.

John eased back into his chair after showing his elderly female patient out the door. It was difficult to balance the various medications she needed to take, but he thought the latest tweak would stop the dizzy spells every morning. He sighed. Aging is shit. Maybe he should plan on going out with a bang, after all.  
  
Like Sherlock.  
  
He rubbed at his forehead, willing away his despondency.  _Give over, you wanker._  Distraction. He needed distraction. His intercom buzzed. ‘Patient here to see you, Doctor Watson.’  
  
Brilliant. ‘Send them in, thanks, Jenny.’  
  
A moment later the door opened and John’s next patient stepped through.  
  
‘Paul! What are you doing here?’ John asked, smiling just a little helplessly. Then he frowned, a spike of unease shot threw him. ‘Are you all right?’  
  
‘Course I am, you wally. Just wanted to see a doctor about  _this_ ,’ Paul replied, shrugging out of his hoodie and lifting his t-shirt.  
  
‘Shit. When did you do that?’ John bent to inspect Paul’s swollen nipple – pierced through with a small gauge ring.  
  
‘Two days ago, mate. Hurts like a right fucker too.’  
  
‘Hmm.’ John didn’t comment. Though he very much wanted to. Paul should’ve come to him if he wanted a piercing, but they had both been trying to get some space – a bit of distance and, for Paul, some independence. John knew damn well that he had been calling too many shots; sorting out Paul’s ID issues, getting him on the NHS and even organising and paying for his dental work. The piercing was a symbol of defiance, clearly.  
  
And yet here he was. Still trusting John after everything.  
  
‘Okay, hop up on the table, let’s see if we can salvage the little bugger.’  
  
John pulled on a pair of gloves, watched with interest as Paul’s eyes tracked his hands. ‘No, not in the surgery, Paul,’ he commented with a smirk. ‘Come ‘round later if you want.’  
  
Paul leered a little then drew in a sharp breath at the touch of surgical spirits against his chest.  
  
‘Hold still, you big girl.’ John admonished, gently swabbing the area and moving the ring to check for discharge around the entry points. ‘I don’t think it’s that bad. There’s some swelling, but it doesn’t seem to be infected – you’ve had no crusty residue?’  
  
Paul goggled a little.  
  
‘On your tit, Paul.’  
  
‘Oh. No.’  
  
‘Although, if you have anywhere else I should probably know about it…’ John commented as he ransacked the supply cabinet for some antiseptic cream and gauze dressing.  
  
‘I’m always careful, Johnny,’ Paul said in mock-sweet tone. ‘You know that. ‘Sides, I’ve gone off that, mostly. School’s a bit full on, y’know?’  
  
‘You managing?’ John asked, trying for casual curiousity, dying to know if he needed help.  
  
‘Yeah, yeah. Fine. Gotta a part-timer at a café and the student dosh helps a bit.’  
  
John smiled. He had very little hope that Paul was declaring extra income against his student payment, he just hoped it was all cash under the table and wouldn’t stand up in court.  
  
‘How’s the flat?’  
  
Paul shrugged and hissed as he bumped his freshly-covered nipple against John’s hand. John rubbed his thigh in sympathy, left his hand there.  
  
‘It’s alright. I miss you. Sometimes,’ he admitted, his eyes darting up and down. ‘Still, it’s a party every night, just about,’ he snorted.  
  
Paul had moved into a student-share house close to the college where he was completing his senior studies. He had plans to do uni in another year, results permitting.  
  
John’s hand tightened around Paul’s denim-clad thigh. ‘I miss you too. But… I’m… not  _proud_ , because I’m not your dad–’  
  
Paul gave a weak chuckle at that.  
  
‘Happy. I’m happy to see you getting all this done. Getting your life planned out. You’re such a smart–’  
  
He almost said  _kid_. Wouldn’t that have been a mistake.  
  
‘–guy,’ he finished with a barely noticeable pause.  
  
Paul gave him a grin with a hint of a blush. ‘So are you Doctor Watson.’ He leaned forward and tilted his face to kiss John.  
  
‘Mmm.’ He really had missed Paul. He’d tried to date a woman, got through two outings and had to bow out. He hadn’t given up all prospects, but he thought he should probably wait a bit longer before he tried again.  
  
And always, at the back of his mind, rearing up at unexpected moments…  
  
John slowly pulled away from Paul’s mouth. His pulse had kicked up a little and in a few more seconds he might have started to grab at Paul’s pert backside. Very unprofessional!  
  
He placed both hands on Paul’s thighs, grounding himself and taking a deep breath. ‘Later. Come ‘round. I get off at six.’  
  
Paul chuckled. ‘Nah, mate. You’ll be getting’ off at seven. Inside me,’ he stated confidently, swinging down from the examination table. ‘Thanks for the check-up, Doc,’ he said by way of farewell, swaggering to the door as John watched appreciatively.  
  
‘Bye,’ John said faintly as the door closed.  
  
~  
  
John walked straight from the front door into the bathroom, stripping off clothes as he went, hopping out of his socks as he wrenched the shower tap on. Paul was coming over and he wanted to greet him clean and relaxed, not wrinkled and reeking of disinfectant.  
  
He’d just turned off the tap when he heard the clunk of the tumbler in the front door lock. Did Paul still have a key? Must do. John grabbed a towel and wrapped it carelessly around his waist. He called out through the open bathroom door, ‘Grab a beer if you want, love, I’ll be right out.’  
  
Paul didn’t reply, but John heard footsteps and the fridge door opening and closing. He hastily brushed his teeth, hitched his towel a bit more securely, and walked out to greet his sometime lover.  
  
He stopped dead after four steps into the small living space. There was a man sipping from one of his beer cans, lounging elegantly on his tidy bed.  
  
‘Sherlock–'  
  
~end part 1


	2. Chapter 2

John woke, hearing voices nearby and not able to make sense of the words.  
  
‘What the fuck are you doin’, you tosser?’  
  
‘Absolutely nothing. As yet. And you must be… Paul.’  
  
John flung himself up – he’d been lying on the bed? Why? He blinked and looked for the owner of that voice. ‘Sherlo…’ he whispered hoarsely.  
  
‘John?’  
  
‘John–’  
  
The two tall men turned towards him. John had obviously interrupted something of a Mexican stand-off – they both eyed John closely; one with badly concealed worry and one with an intensity that John had almost forgotten. In some twisted universe they might be brothers, John thought – this new reality warping and twisting everything he thought he knew.  
  
It was him. It was Sherlock. He had dyed-blond hair, was wearing a bad raincoat and a beanie, but it was Sherlock.  
  
‘Fuck,’ John swore faintly, slowly swinging his legs to the floor and only then realising that he somehow lost his towel. He made a dizzy grab for it.  
  
Paul said, ‘Here, mate. Put your jeans on.’ John grappled with his jeans, his fingers stubbornly refusing to push the button through the hole. He gave up and went with the zipper, unable to look away from Sherlock.  
  
John had never imagined him with light hair – it looked ridiculous. The man had a scruffy little beard dyed to match. Appalling.  
  
‘How–’ he stumbled over his words, not knowing where to begin. ‘I saw you. On the ground. I saw you–’  
  
John reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm, verifying the solidity of the flesh and bone.  
  
‘John. Are you saying, you think this is  _him?_ ’ Paul asked, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Are you daft or something?’  
  
John shook his head, nodded his head – felt dizzy. ‘This is Sherlock, Paul.’  
  
Paul stepped back from John and stood looking Sherlock over. ‘Is it true? Are you Sherlock Holmes?’ he demanded.  
  
John watched unmoving as Sherlock’s eyes swept the boy from head to toe, his lip curling. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t broadcast the fact. I’ve been in hiding for a very good reason.’  
  
‘What fucking reason is worth breaking his fucking heart, you piece of shit?’  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, clipped swiftly to John and back without quite meeting his eyes.  
  
Shit, John thought. Did he have room to be embarrassed about Paul’s resemblance to Sherlock, or about the fact that Sherlock probably deduced their history together at least ten minutes ago? ‘Paul–’ he began, trying to minimise the damage, ‘Don’t, please…’  
  
‘What the fuck, John? This arsehole put you through hell! Do you imagine I didn’t know how close you were to, to–’ Paul breathed heavily, turned back to Sherlock and straightened with innate dignity. He held a finger up to Sherlock’s chest who remained still and silent.  
  
‘Mate, you are the biggest, most shit-filled piece of scum on this fucking planet. No mistake. John barely got through after, after your fucking stunt!’ Paul’s hand shook, his finger still pointed accusingly. ‘Have you even thought about that? Creepin’ around where ever you’ve been hiding out? Leaving him to face all that shit in the fucking newspapers – how fucking brave was that? And you were supposed to be his fucking  _best friend_.’  
  
John stared, aghast at Paul’s outburst. ‘No, Paul–’  
  
Paul whirled. ‘No, what? I’m supposed to stand here and say,  _well fuckdeedoo, Mr Sherlock, aren’t we lucky to have you back after thinking you stone cold in the ground, and the man who loved you talking to your lovely gravestone every week?_  Fuck that, John. Really, fuck… that.’ Paul took a step back. ‘I don’t know… what you’re going to do, John. But, he,’ Paul waved his hand at Sherlock, ‘has fucked you over. And all you ever did was believe in him.’ Paul glanced at Sherlock. ‘I can’t believe I did too.’  
  
John saw the tiniest twitch around Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
‘Paul, just leave. Please,’ he said heavily, rubbing his fingers over his brow.  
  
Paul stared. ‘You what?’ his voice cracking slightly.  
  
‘Leave,’ John repeated. ‘Get out. Now.’  
  
‘Right,’ Paul said, staring into space for a beat. ‘Right.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out a strip of condoms, stepped forward, Sherlock and John both moving out of his way in reflex, and threw them on the bed. ‘I won’t be needing these tonight.’ He looked down at John, just a pace away. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy together.’  
  
John swallowed. Something had gone horribly, irretrievably wrong with this, but, God! Sherlock is alive. ‘Goodbye, Paul.’  
  
Paul’s lips folded inwards and he gave an abrupt nod, turned and stalked swiftly out of the flat, door slamming at his exit.  
  
John’s eyes cut straight back to Sherlock’s, drank in the sight of him like an alcoholic on a three-day bender.  
  
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Sherlock in a flat tone.  
  
John started laughing. He couldn’t stop. Suddenly his legs began to wobble. Sherlock brought his arms up and around, held him close. John kept laughing. He thought it was laughing, but Sherlock began to gently wipe tears from his face.  
  
John gave up the pretence and buried his face in the man’s cheap anorak. Paul’s voice drifted into his mind,  _Let it go, mate_  – and he did.  
  
~end part 2


	3. Chapter 3

They found themselves on the bed, side by side. John too shaky to sit and Sherlock too exhausted to remain upright – a state that alarmed John when he spared a thought for it. At some point John wobbled over and made 2 minute noodles for Sherlock, brought the cup back and shoved another pillow behind Sherlock’s head so he could sip without having to move much.  
  
‘You have to sleep,’ John said after an hour of talking; Sherlock explaining his great deception in detail and John beginning to get a picture of how much stress he’d been under for six months. Mycroft’s role in the whole matter came up, as well as Molly’s, and John was retrospectively angered at the play-acting he’d witnessed when he’d finally swallowed his pride long enough to ask for Mycroft’s help in getting Paul’s new identity made official. At that point he’d been beyond caring what Mycroft thought of his involvement with Paul. Some chance remarks he’d made to John now had a new context.  
  
‘I know I need sleep. That’s why I had to come to you,’ Sherlock answered, his voice already drowsy.  
  
‘You had to have a reason to come to me?’  
  
‘Yes, it was a risk, you see – I wanted to wait until I had the last man, the last of Moriarty’s employees. But… I will make a mistake if I don’t rest before I go after him. And I can’t turn my back – I can’t be helpless and vulnerable. Mycroft doesn’t know where I am and he can’t protect me. He would try if I let him and my cover would be gone – I’d be an irresistible target to Moran. All he wants is revenge for the death of his Master.’  
  
He was starting to ramble and John took the cup from his hands. He had a flash, bright and clear, of the first night Paul had spent in his bed. He couldn’t think about Paul right now… he mustn’t.  
  
‘You can sleep now, Sherlock. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.’  
  
Sherlock sighed, turned over to face John. ‘But what if he comes and gets you while I’m asleep? I shouldn’t have come, I’ve just put you in danger when all I ever wanted was to keep you from it.’ His eyelids lowered, almost shutting. With sheer force of will he forced them open and focused on John’s face again. ‘I’m sorry John,’ he whispered.  
  
A minute later he lost the fight and slept.  
  
John unlocked a box from under his bed, pulled out his browning, checked the magazine. His hand was steady. He pushed some pillows behind his back and sat against the headboard, legs stretched out alongside Sherlock, the gun snugged against his thigh. He left the bed lamp on. He gazed at Sherlock’s sleeping face.  
  
No more surprises.  
  
~  
  
After a time, John fell into a trance-like state. He sat still, unblinking, unthinking, the night pressing down around him. He hadn’t eaten anything since lunch but wasn’t bothered by hunger. He drifted in a space where time didn’t flow, hunger didn’t happen.  
  
In the back of his mind he recognised it as the place he’d gone to after Sherlock had died. After nights spent sneaking into the cemetery to sit against his gravestone, unmoving until the first dawn light. Only that was wrong. Because Sherlock hadn’t died…  
  
And at the back of John’s mind a fury like none other reared its head, and John looked it in the eye and wondered if he would survive it.  
  
Sherlock stirred in his sleep. John slammed back into his body: his aching, stiff joints and chilled skin. He looked at the clock: 1.58am. Nearly six hours. Sherlock murmured softly, his head moving side-to-side. John carefully slipped off the bed, limping a little as he made his way to the loo. His back creaked as he bent to retrieve his clothes from the floor where, quite literally a lifetime ago – Sherlock’s lifetime, he’d dropped them in his haste to get ready for Paul’s visit. He turned on the bathroom light and dropped them in the laundry basket. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw a ghost of the disturbed veteran.  
  
There was something in his eyes that didn’t look like him.  
  
Paul had given John something – not just the gift of Paul in his life, but he’d given John Watson back to himself. And John Watson had been lost to himself because Sherlock had died…  
  
WRONG.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t died.  
  
He splashed water on his face, washing away old tear stains. He wiped his face, rubbed fingers in his hair – he hadn’t brushed it after his shower all those hours ago and it had gone into strange spikes.  
  
He suddenly, urgently couldn’t face Sherlock. The man was real, he was alive and John felt like he might go mad. He could feel parts of himself floating away. He sat on the edge of the old bath and put his head down, fighting a dizzy spell.  
  
‘Have I gone insane?’ he asked himself in a whisper.  
  
‘If you have then I’m there with you.’  
  
John jumped, looked up to see Sherlock in the doorway. He still looked ridiculous, and that reassured him. He couldn’t have possibly made this up in his own head. Sherlock a blond?  
  
He’d taken off the beanie hours ago and John had been vastly relieved to see that his hair hadn’t been shortened much from his usual mop of curls. It stood up on end now as he regarded John.  
  
‘I’m real, John.’  
  
‘Evidently,’ John said, using one of Sherlock’s favourite affirmations. It produced an uncertain smile from the man. John realised for the first time that despite appearing out of nowhere, and causing John to faint in shock, he really hadn’t taken John’s forgiveness – his acceptance – for granted.  
  
The fury that lurked under his thoughts continued to bide its time. John knew he had to do something with it soon, but not right now. Not with Sherlock standing raw and vulnerable right  _there_  in front of him.  
  
‘God,’ he choked. John rose up and grabbed him by the shoulders, placed his mouth right over Sherlock’s and kissed hungrily.  
  
They’d never done this. He’d never needed to do this before, before… Sherlock’s ‘death’. Paul really hadn’t been a substitute – he’d been wish fulfillment.   
  
Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s waist, his fingertips flexing against John’s skin. John shuddered, hair standing up all over his body. Sherlock’s lips flexed against his in time with his fingers – a musical accompaniment. John angled and pushed, backed Sherlock up against the doorframe, took a second to catch his breath and dove back to Sherlock’s reddened lips.  
  
More.  
  
God, more.  
  
Don’t stop to think…  
  
Sherlock turned his head just enough to break contact, John’s lips still linked to his by a thin strand of saliva. He panted in counterpoint to John’s gusting breaths. John could smell soured chicken noodles. He tucked all the unpleasant evidence of Sherlock’s existence away for safe-keeping in his mind – a file marked ‘This is Real’. Smiled to himself because it’s what Sherlock would do. If Sherlock were to fart right now John would treasure it.  
  
‘John, I can’t,’ Sherlock began awkwardly.  
  
John’s belly dropped like a lift with its cables cut. ‘Oh, right.’ He pulled away, disengaging finger by finger. Sherlock still had his hands around John’s waist. John looked at him in confusion.  
  
‘I want to. God, John, I want to!’  
  
John put a hand up to cup Sherlock’s face. ‘There’s no rush, I can wait.’  
  
‘I have to get Moran. I have to go  _now_.’  
  
‘I’ll come with you. You aren’t going anywhere without me, Sherlock,’ John said, bringing his other hand to Sherlock’s face and forcing him to look. He stared hard into those extraordinary eyes. ‘Never again, do you understand?’  
  
Sherlock gave a minute nod, his pupils black and wide.  
  
‘Okay, then.’ John stepped back, out of Sherlock’s embrace. ‘Where are we going?  
  
Sherlock took in a shaking breath.  
  
‘Baker Street.’  
  
~end part 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. You know how this was supposed to be a 5 chapter fic? Not really...
> 
> Beta'd, at last! The lovely Luthien did beta bash on this chapter.

Part 4

The man they were after was the last man left standing after the dissolution of Moriarty’s criminal enterprise: former Olympic shooter, now professional sniper, Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had been pursuing him from the shadows for months, avoiding detection until a week ago. After two failed attempts to entrap him, Moran had twigged to Sherlock’s faked death ruse and was now in the process of tracking Sherlock down to kill him. And anyone close to Sherlock had become a potential bonus target for Moran. The sniper was showing signs that he’d become more than a little unhinged when it came to Sherlock.  
  
After telling John all of this Sherlock had confessed his relief that John had moved out of Baker Street when he had – had, in fact, inadvertently made himself hard to trace with his hair-colour change, by not associating with their circle of friends and colleagues, and not using his real name. John had so successfully dropped off the radar that Sherlock had resorted to texting Mycroft, of all people. Mycroft, who had not made any effort to stay in contact John, but knew exactly where he had been, what he had been doing, and who he had been doing it with.  
  
Mycroft, who had arranged for Lestrade to be sent on a temporary assignment out of London, and who had sent Mrs Hudson north to stay with her sister for a spell.  
  
(Mycroft, who after John had texted him, had seen to Paul’s paperwork, giving John a birth certificate with a new name that Paul’s stepfather would never know about, and who had asked John no questions, but made a comment that seemed extraordinarily cold at the time – ‘Let us hope that this one lasts a little longer, John.’)  
  
Sherlock led him through back lanes, alleyways, up fire escapes, down fire escapes, through the kitchen of a twenty-four hour takeaway (for a moment John held a faint hope of actually eating something – now that he was moving his appetite had resurfaced). At length John thought that he recognized their surroundings.  
  
‘Sherlock, are we–’  
  
John was interrupted, Sherlock waving him to stop and placing a finger against his lips with a light, ‘Shh.’  
  
It was sheer chance that John could see his gestures – they had fetched up behind a block of flats in a narrow access lane with no lighting to speak of. The dimmest shaft of moonlight streamed past the rooftop and lit the top of Sherlock’s head.  
  
Recognition continued to tickle at John’s memory. He scratched the side of his head and stood looking around in the hope that he could pull his sense of familiarity into focus.  
  
Sherlock was busy finagling with a door in the back of the flats. It gave way without a sound – John would put money on Sherlock having a tiny oilcan secreted in his coat for the prevention of squeaking doors. He’d replaced the dark beanie and he looked like nothing more than a common household burglar. If they were to be apprehended by the police tonight John didn’t think Lestrade, or anyone else at the Met, would be in any position to help them.  
  
John followed Sherlock into the building, down a set of stairs and then carefully navigated around dusty cleaning equipment and hot water tanks. They inched their way by the light of Sherlock’s penlight to another staircase leading up to another door. Sherlock’s did another quick finessing with his lock pick and they were through to a darkened lobby.  
  
John’s senses were on high alert, his eyes wide open in the dark and scanning three hundred and sixty degrees around them as he crept up a long set of stairs behind Sherlock. It was his hand lightly curled around Sherlock’s elbow that prevented him from stumbling into him when Sherlock stopped in front of another door at the top of the landing. This time Sherlock produced a key, handing John his penlight and aiming it toward the lock. With absolutely no sound that John could discern, Sherlock turned the key and the door handle.  
  
As John expected, there was no squeak, the movement of air and the slight rustle of their clothing the only sounds to announce their arrival. They stepped through and Sherlock closed the door just as carefully, waving John to inspect the apartment after mouthing the word ‘careful’ on a breath of air against his ear. John shivered and walked quickly but silently through the small suite of rooms.  
  
The air was stale, though the place bore signs of having been in use very recently. The takeaway containers piled on the kitchen counter had not decayed to the point of noxiousness, and on the aging sofa was a pillow that still held the impression of a head.  
  
Sherlock had stopped at the plastic crate set on the floor next to a folding chair. A metal tripod was set up closer to the window. As John watched, Sherlock picked up a foil pie dish serving as an ashtray and sniffed it. He picked up a cigarette butt and flicked his penlight on briefly. His smile was quick and cold. He moved without a sound and put his hand on John’s shoulder – his lips came to rest against John’s ear and he spoke on a whisper.  
  
‘Moran may have voice-activated monitoring devices. We need total silence.’  
  
John nodded without speaking.  
  
Sherlock pointed at the window and John followed him to look through. He was looking into Baker Street. Small wonder he’d been thinking the area looked familiar – though he’d never seen it from this angle. He looked to the building opposite and shut his mouth over his urge to make a noise, brought his hand up as well. Just in case.  
  
It was 221B.  
  
As they both stood in the darkened room, watching, John thought he saw a small flicker of light in the rooms opposite. The windows to their erstwhile living room were bare. Even when they’d lived there the curtains had rarely been drawn – Sherlock being too much of a voyeur and not much for privacy, even his own.  
  
This time John was sure he’d seen a flicker of light. He looked at Sherlock, all shadowed apart from the gleam of his eyes. Sherlock turned and nodded slowly at him. Someone was in  _their_  flat.  
  
John began to feel angry. His hand remained perfectly steady. The sleeping monster under his thoughts stirred.   
  
Just as John’s feet began to protest their long vigil, Sherlock dragged him towards the bedroom, pressing an unnecessary finger to his lips. John was baffled until he heard the rasp of a key in the door. With the clear view into 221B, Moran must have been using the disused flat opposite, the one they were standing in – the flat last occupied by a Russian assassin.  
  
He was coming back to lie in wait for Sherlock. And they’d beat him to it.  
  
~  
  
Sherlock and John were out of Moran’s line of sight, the door of the bedroom angled to block them from the sniper’s sight. John was drawn to the bedroom’s windows, sliding free from Sherlock’s loose grip around his arm and pulling gently at the heavy curtain that blocked their view of the building opposite. What was Moran going to do when his quarry didn’t show up? Unless Sherlock had arranged a decoy with Mycroft – something that he hadn’t got around to discussing with John in the short time they’d been together.  
  
They couldn’t talk now, so his questions were to remain unanswered. John always got twitchy when Sherlock kept him in the dark. He looked back, hoping to see some clue about how they would proceed, but Sherlock remained still and alert, listening to Moran as he moved through the flat. The sniper had used the bathroom, opened the fridge, and John heard the tell-tale pop and hiss of a can of beer being opened. He obviously had no fear of being observed – the possibility that someone might have entered the flat in his absence had never even occurred to him. John thought this unforgivably sloppy.  
  
There was a flash of light from the window behind him and John swung his head back to peer through the gap in the bedroom curtains. Someone was inside 221B.  
  
Right, so there was a plan. More than likely Mycroft was supplying some kind of decoy for Moran to target. John hoped they were wearing a decent amount of Kevlar, or one of the new lightweight body armours.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock was at his elbow, pulling the gap in the curtain slightly wider and staring intently at their living room windows. John caught sight of a frown bunching on Sherlock’s brow. He turned back to see if anyone was visible from their vantage point. Sure enough, a slim silhouette passed one of the large windows, lit from behind by the desk lamp. That seemed a bit blatant to John – almost too obvious a target.  
  
Sherlock was still frowning furiously, the streetlight limning his features with sickly yellow. As John studied Sherlock, hoping for some cue – something that would let him  _act_  instead of this unbearable waiting – he heard the unmistakable sounds of Moran moving into position at the window in the next room. The sniper made no effort to be quiet, but moved with economy of movement as he made minute adjustments to the rifle after setting it on the tripod.  
  
John was aware of Sherlock quivering next to him – a barely discernible movement. Something was wrong. The person moving inside their flat wasn’t who Sherlock was expecting to see. John stared intently through the window, hoping to catch another glimpse of the figure opposite.  
  
Just then the person paused, hands on hips, a perfect target in the right window of their apartment. Who the hell was it? How did they not realize the danger they were in?  
  
There was a soft movement of cloth from the room next to them, a scuff of a boot on the carpet. Moran lining up for a shot.  
  
John stared hard at the window, willing the person to move, they did, turning sideways and moving a hand up to their head. John gasped.  
  
Moran fired. A chuff of sound.  
  
‘Paul!’ John was already moving.

 

~end part 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the chapter count blow out! Long, angsty fic is even longer - I will try and stick to seven, promise. Beta bashed by the lovely Luthien.

  
Part 5  
  
John barreled into the living room. Moran was rising from his position near the rifle affixed to the tripod. He represented both target and obstacle to John – he would have to get past him at speed. Get to Paul.  
  
Moran had to  _end_.  
  
He’d give the man this; he was startled, but he was quick. Reflexes fast. John just made his faster. As Moran lurched to his feet, toggling a quick release on the sniper rifle, John thought, firstly; who the fuck had time to press a trigger? And then; which vertebra will suit my purposes best?  
  
His arm around Moran’s neck – never saw it coming – his fingers curled around the sniper’s jaw, tenacious. Wrench, get his C3 – a quick finish. The subtle but audible crack and the sliding, limp weight of the man. Dropped, running. Paul–  
  
Paul. No. Please, God…  
  
He thought he heard Sherlock calling him, but it seemed very far away and there was a rushing in John’s ears. He didn’t hear his own feet as they hit each second step on the way down to the street door. He fumbled with the door latch with fingers that had no feeling. Open.  _Open, fuck it!_  
  
The door opened and John nearly fell through in his haste, the numbness spreading to his feet. Keep moving. He ran across the road, heedless. He would think about not being hit by a car later. Up to 221B, pause to hammer at the door, only belatedly remembering he’d never taken the key off his ring. A frantic burrowing in his pocket and the key up to the lock. Get the fuck  _in_.  
  
Up the stairs, only now, standing in the room he was aware of a muffled thumping. Sounded like the pantry cupboard. But Paul was over there, near the window. John gave the thumping no more thought. Sherlock’s voice in the background. Not important.  
  
‘Call an ambulance! Now!’  
  
‘On the way,’ Sherlock replied.  
  
So much blood. John scrambled over and dropped onto his knees, already feeling the warm red soaking into his jeans (the same jeans that Paul had handed him last night). ‘It’s a head injury, tell them no sirens, and make it fucking fast,’ he clipped out. ‘And get some towels!’  
  
A handful of clean tea towels appeared at his elbow, John snatched at them without looking up. His first aid kit, more of a heavy-lidded storage box, was no longer at the flat – John had taken it with him when he moved out.  _Shit._  
  
He wadded a tea towel into something wholly inadequate that would have to do, pressed it to the side of Paul’s head, passed another tea towel back over his shoulder with the curt instruction, ‘Tear it into strips, join them up.’  
  
The towel left his hand, and he heard Sherlock following his instructions. John’s eyes never left Paul. He was moaning softly, eyelids flickering open and shut. John tried desperately not to hope. Failed.  
  
‘John,’ Paul whispered.  
  
‘Hi, I’m here, sunshine. Don’t move, keep nice and still for me, yeah?’ He’d have to try and elevate Paul’s head. The thought made him queasy with apprehension; he had no idea what the damage was yet. Had the impact damaged his spine, did he have a skull fracture? He didn’t have a brace, damn it! How long was the fucking ambulance going to take?  
  
He hadn’t realised that he’d asked the question aloud until Sherlock’s deep voice answered, ‘They estimate three minutes out.’  
  
That’s a fucking lifetime. Sherlock pressed the tea towel bandage into his free hand. Okay, now he could do something. John carefully wrapped the first tea towel into place against the wound, enough pressure to slow the bleeding, hopefully not enough to press against any bone fragments. He fucking hated head wounds.  
  
Paul moaned again, a weak, pitiful sound. He really had to try and get his head and shoulders up a bit. Head wounds always bled like buggery, even relatively minor injuries. He should probably take some comfort in that, but really couldn’t get past the panic rattling around in his chest.  
  
He needed something for a baseboard. He nodded at the smaller coffee table. ‘Get the legs off that.’  
  
He’d only taken two more breaths when he heard the snapping of the legs in four quick beats.  
  
‘I’m going to brace his neck and head, lift him, and then you’re going to slide the table in under my hands,’ he stated.  
  
‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed, no questions, no commentary.  
  
‘We get my leg under it, so no higher than about ten inches, okay?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
They had always been a good team in a crisis, he thought, as Sherlock angled the wooden top under Paul’s shoulders. John kept his hands around Paul’s head and neck until he’d slipped his leg under the table top. He’d really liked that table.  
  
Paul’s eyes had fluttered open. ‘John,’ he slurred softly. ‘Sorry…’  
  
‘Hey, gorgeous – what do you have to be sorry about, huh?’ John kept his hands on either side of Paul’s head, ready to stop any movement. ‘Don’t move, darling. I’ve got you and you’re going to be fine.’  
  
‘Broke in. Worried…’  
  
‘Shh, it’s fine. I don’t care about any of that. You break in any damn time you like, gorgeous, see if I complain.’  
  
Paul’s eyes filled up, spilled tears over his eyelids. ‘Hurts… Johnny.’  
  
‘I know, love. Not for much longer now,’ John said. He heard Sherlock opening the street door, the rattle of the stretcher as the paramedics came up the stairs. ‘I’ll be with you, love – I’m not leaving.’  
  
He helped the paramedics get Paul onto the stretcher, elevated it slightly, watched anxiously as they got him back down and into the ambulance. Got in without asking them, ‘cause, fuck if he wasn’t. Caught sight of Sherlock as the doors closed, standing at the entrance to 221B, looking down at his phone.  
  
Didn’t know what to feel.  
  
Please, God, let him live.  
  
~  
  
He wandered slowly into the waiting room, not having anywhere better to be. Sherlock and Mycroft were both there, utterly absorbed in each other. John couldn’t care less. He was focused on Paul coming out of surgery, that’s all.  
  
‘You said you would have someone in place!’ Sherlock hissed in anger.  
  
‘We did. Your young friend took him quite by surprise,’ Mycroft answered, a hint of annoyance in his voice, but overlaid with his habitual calm.  
  
‘He’s not my friend! He’s John’s lover.’  
  
John felt a distant jolt at the words. As if someone had punched him in the face  _after_  the local anesthetic had kicked in. He paid them no more attention, giving himself over to thoughts of Paul crowding through his mind like a movie reel on an endless loop. He looked down at his hands, covered in blood. He got up from his chair and walked around slowly, trying to remember where the bathroom was. A nurse rushed up saying, ‘Are you all right, sir?’  
  
John shook his head, making the awful fluorescent lights dance at the edges of his vision. He wondered if he was going to faint again. Could be a new trend.  
  
‘I’m fine. I’m fucking fine.’  
  
He thought that he was reassuring her, but she frowned a bit before she moved away. John’s eyes didn’t follow her progress, but he expected hospital security might be getting a heads up.  
  
He finally found the bathroom, did his best to wash his hands, but blood once dried on the skin was a persistent fucker. He scrubbed, scrubbed,  _scrubbed_ …  
  
There was fresh blood flowing into the basin when Sherlock came to fetch him.  
  
Sherlock took a paper towel to his face. Tell me I’m not fucking  _crying_  again?  
  
Hadn’t realised he’d said  _that_  aloud either, until Sherlock responded with a gruff, ‘God forbid that the stoic John Watson should have his tipping point after enduring twelve hours that would render most ordinary people catatonic with shock.’  
  
‘I’m not in shock,’ he protested.  
  
‘Of course not,’ Sherlock reassured him, dabbing at his hands carefully. ‘I’m… not sure what this is.’  
  
The admission should have startled him.  
  
‘He’s out of surgery. In ICU, but stable. Barring complications, the doctor expects him to wake up in a few hours.’  
  
John dared to look at Sherlock then. Sherlock’s lips parted as he stared back.  
  
‘The prognosis is good, John.’  
  
~  
  
Much later, once John had returned to his flat, he emptied his pockets – desperate to get out of his bloodied clothes. Sherlock had followed him, not asking if he could. He heard him close and lock the door, murmuring something about the lamentable lack of security. John fished his phone out of his pocket, thumbed on the power switch as he dropped it on his bed. It vibrated almost at once with an incoming message.  
  
John looked down at it blearily. He almost didn’t pick it up. Almost. He shouldered out of his shirt, grimacing at the stiff crinkle of Paul’s blood. He clicked on the messages icon. Voicemails: 2. John was too exhausted to be apprehensive, but  _something_  made the hair on his neck attempt to stand up.  
  
 _John, pick up, mate. Or call me back. Whatever. Let me know that you’re okay. I know I shouldn’t’ve mouthed off at him. I know. Just… I was so angry. At him. Not you. I couldn’t be angry at you, John. I know how… how you feel about him. Call me._  
  
John had goosebumps on his arms by the time he picked up the next message.  
  
 _John, this is fucking weird, mate. Where are you? I’m in your place and no one’s here. Where the hell are you at this time of fuckin’ night? Right, I’m heading over to Baker Street – I know a cabbie around here who owes me. I just need to know you’re okay._  
  
There was a muffled snort and a quick breath, as if Paul was already hurrying down the street.  
  
 _If you two are doin’ it when I get there, I’ll fuckin’ hit you._  
  
The end of the message. John looked at his missed calls list. There were four in all, from Paul’s number. He hadn’t left any more voicemails after the first two. John recalled seeing Paul’s silhouette at the window – the way he’d lifted his hand to his head just before Moran pulled the trigger. He looked at the time stamp on the most recent missed call: he’d been calling John.  
  
John dropped the phone on the bed, sat down, slumped. He watched from the periphery of his vision as Sherlock picked up his phone, looked at the screen, his eyebrows doing that thing that they did as thoughts tumbled through his brain lightning fast.  
  
He looked down at John. John stared at the tatty carpet thinking about… dust mites.  
  
‘It wasn’t your fault, John’  
  
John cleared his throat, coughed, because he couldn’t seem to get his voice to work.  
  
‘It was mine.’  
  
John shook his head, sharp, fast. ‘No-o. No. No, you’ve done plenty, Sherlock, but you didn’t pick up a rent boy because you were so fucking lonely and desperate that you wanted anything,  _anything_  that was even  _close_  to what you’d lost.’ He drew in a shaky breath. ‘What you thought you’d lost.’  
  
Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t speak. But what was there to say?  
  
‘And that’s why the fault is mine.’  
  
What?  
  
Sherlock dropped the phone back on the bed. ‘I’ll be at Mycroft’s. Um, call me when…’  
  
He turned abruptly, walked back to the door and eased through it soundlessly.  
  
John was alone.  
  
  
~end part 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is a bit longer than previous chapters (and earns the 'explicit' rating). Enjoy! Beta bashed by Luthien.

John jerked awake at the heavy-handed knocking on his front door. He sat up, trying to work out how long he’d been asleep. He hadn’t actually gone to bed, just slid sideways on top of it, half-dressed and utterly spent. He struggled up and walked to the door, blinking and trying to ignore the way the hairs on his leg were stuck to the dried blood on his jeans, ripping loose with each step. He shivered.  
  
John had left his name and details at the hospital, so wasn’t surprised to see Dimmock when he opened his door.  
  
‘Dr Watson,’ Dimmock greeted him with a wary nod.  
  
‘Inspector,’ John responded, wondering at the man’s demeanour.  
  
‘I need to get a statement from you about the incident that occurred early this morning at Baker Street.’  
  
‘Right. Um, do you want to come in, or should I see you at the Met?’  
  
Dimmock’s eyes did a quick survey of John’s state of semi-undress, the bloodstained jeans, and no doubt his hair charging off in all directions.  
  
‘At the Met, then. In an hour?’  
  
John nodded, swallowing. He hadn’t stopped to fully process the fact that he had killed Sebastian Moran. He might be in for a shit-load of legal trouble.  
  
He hadn’t wished for Mycroft’s interfering presence for a long time.  
  
‘The miraculously revived Sherlock Holmes has already given us a statement. A rather long one, as it happens. We’ve all missed those, I’m sure. I doubt the investigation will take long, Dr Watson,’ Dimmock added with something that was almost a smile.  
  
John nodded again. ‘Okay. I’ll be by to see you at–’ He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock already? ‘Um, eleven?’  
  
‘That would be appreciated,’ Dimmock said, still eyeing him oddly. ‘I’ll see you then, sir.’  
  
John closed the door to Dimmock’s retreating back. ‘Sir’? Since when…  
  
Since John dispatched a professional sniper bare-handed, he supposed. The thought did not bring a smile to his face. He remembered the sound, the  _vibration_  that ran up his arms as he’d snapped Moran’s neck. The sudden weight falling against him. He looked down at his stained jeans, chafing at his skin, heavy with Paul’s blood.  
  
John stumbled to the bathroom, heaved over the toilet bowl. Nothing to expel except vending machine coffee from the hospital a few hours ago. Just as bad coming up as it was going down. His stomach tried valiantly to find something more, spasming again and again until John’s face felt like it would melt right off. He gasped and pulled in deep breaths as it eased. He splashed water over his face and neck. His eyelids had swollen and his eyes, half-hidden underneath, were bloodshot.  
  
He leaned over and pulled at the shower taps, ripped at his jeans with raw fingers. Get off, get off, _get the fuck off!_  
  
He crouched in the shower, trembling and rubbing at his skin over and over. When the water ran cold at last he clambered out and dried off, found some clean clothes and got dressed. His stomach rumbled loudly, but he didn’t know what to do with the hunger. He felt vaguely sick, like he was coming down with flu. That never happened to him.  
  
He had the feeling he’d forgotten something important. He looked around the flat, hoping to jog his memory. As he gathered up his keys from the kitchen counter it hit him. Where was his gun?  
  
~  
  
John answered all their questions fully and honestly – he didn’t have enough mental resources to spare to even attempt to conceal anything. Dimmock didn’t seem surprised by anything he said. Only raising his eyebrows once after asking for specific details about Moran’s attempt to bring the rifle up and shoot John.  
  
‘It looks like a case of self-defense, though we’ll need to follow procedure – tie up all the loose ends. Mr Holmes will just have to be patient, I don’t cut corners,’ Dimmock commented at the end of the interview.  
  
‘What, sorry? What’s Sherlock got to do with it?’  
  
Dimmock hitched a shoulder, an exasperated expression appearing as he replied, ‘Mr Holmes thought we didn’t need your statement, that his statement should be enough to be going on with.’ He raised his eyes from the papers in front of him to look at John. ‘He said we should leave you alone, that you’d been through enough.’  
  
John looked down at the table, looked at the statement that he’d just signed. He didn’t know what to say.  
  
‘I do agree with him that you have been through enough, Dr Watson. But, I do things by the book, and I always have. Better in the long run, I find.’ Dimmock gathered up his notes, John’s statement, handed them to his sergeant, shoved up out of his chair. ‘Would you like a car to see you home?’  
  
John shook his head. ‘Er, no. Thanks, but, I need to be getting to the hospital.’  
  
‘I hope your… friend is recovering well, Dr Watson.’  
  
It seemed sincere, and John was too tired to be embarrassed about his relationship with Paul anyway.  
  
‘Thanks.’ He nodded briefly and followed Dimmock out of the room.  
  
Sherlock was waiting outside  
  
He’d changed, probably showered too. Had his old dramatic coat back on, though why he would need it at this time of year… His hair was neatly brushed but still horribly blond.  
  
John stopped for just a second, looking his fill. Then he drew in a breath and turned for the lifts. Sherlock followed, walking just a bare inch behind him. ‘I retrieved your gun from the flat–’  
  
Which flat? John thought, not looking back at him.  
  
‘–221B. I hope you didn’t mention anything about it. I didn’t consider it concealing evidence, since you never discharged it.’  
  
They hadn’t asked him about his gun. No reason or opportunity to lie about it.  
  
‘Good,’ Sherlock breathed.  
  
He’d fucking  _missed_  this! John stumbled slightly. Sherlock’s hand was around his arm in a second. Less than a second.  
  
‘John,’ he breathed, almost against John’s ear.  
  
John concentrated on taking a breath, then another. ‘Paul. I need to see Paul,’ he rasped out at last.  
  
Sherlock’s hand dropped away. ‘Yes. I’ll come with you.’  
  
Okay. John could deal with that. In fact, that was – it was Sherlock not running away. Sherlock making an effort to do... difficult emotional things.  
  
Terrible to feel his hopes rise again. He didn’t think he could take another fall.  
  
~  
  
Paul was still in ICU, John was relieved to see, head injuries being the tricky bastards that they were. He was still asleep, but it looked like a natural sleep, and his monitor read outs looked good. He wasn’t on a strong analgesic, so that was a good sign. John hadn’t seen any skull deformities the night before and Paul had simply bled from the scalp, with no sign of cerebrospinal fluid. John was twitching to look at Paul’s chart. He looked at the end of the bed and saw Sherlock already perusing it.  
  
‘Sherlock!’ he hissed.  
  
Sherlock looked up his eyes wide in mild surprise.  
  
‘Put it back,’ John snapped. If he could restrain himself enough to respect Paul’s privacy then Sherlock damn well could as well. If anybody should be prying it should be John and no one else.  
  
He froze at the direction his thoughts had taken. Paul wasn’t his  _property_. He wasn’t his boyfriend, or  _lover_ … He didn’t know what he was, really. Someone he cared for, someone he enjoyed sex with. They certainly weren’t a couple. And he’d never minded that Paul had sex with other blokes – that was his choice and John had never tried to stake a claim on him. John just wanted him to be as safe as he could be.  
  
It was a little like love, but more like respect. And it was nothing like what John felt for Sherlock. Defining that would send him mad. It began with love – included a significant amount of crazy, possessive, obsessive shit, and who knew where it would end?  
  
Sherlock replaced the clipboard quietly and looked warily at John from under his fringe of stupidly blond hair.  
  
John leant over and kissed Paul’s forehead, a bare patch that had escaped the swathe of bandage. ‘Bye, gorgeous. I’ll be back to see you later.’  
  
Paul sighed and pursed his lips briefly in his sleep. John smiled. He’d be okay. John closed his eyes, dropped his chin and let the tension wash down his arms.  
  
 _Thank you. I didn’t thank you the first time, and now that’s two I owe you._  
  
~  
  
He left the hospital, Sherlock a constant presence at his side.  
  
‘Mrs Hudson’s coming back today,’ Sherlock said, breaking his silence as they waited for a crossing light.  
  
John didn’t really know where he was going except in a vaguely homeward direction. He should ring the clinic – he should have been working today. He looked at his watch. Lunchtime. Twenty-four hours since he’d eaten anything. Not good. He could feel himself swaying when he stood still. Wasn’t sure if anything he ate would stay down.  
  
‘You should eat something.’  
  
‘What?’ For a moment the words didn’t make sense. ‘Yeah,’ he added. When would it become annoying again, the constant deducing? Right now it felt like a comforting blanket. He didn’t have to say anything.  
  
He truly didn’t know if things could ever be what they used to be with Sherlock, or if they could be something different together. Something that seemed possible a few hours ago didn’t look as feasible in the clear light of day.  
  
They entered a café and Sherlock headed towards a corner table with a view of the door. John saw the watchful gaze he gave the other patrons, sifting through for potential threats. It made him ache to think of Sherlock going through these past months undercover and alone.  
  
But it was nothing compared to the pain John had endured – he knew that for certain. He was surprised and relieved to feel the residue of that agony without the rage that had threatened to bubble up last night. He looked down at his hands and understood where it had gone.  
  
‘I, bathroom,’ he muttered, and took off looking for the door to the men’s.  
  
John leant over the basin, splashing water on his face and trying to chase away the phantom sensations running through his hands, his arms, his body. It wasn’t working.  
  
He hugged his arms tight to his sides, gripping his jacket hard with his hands, rubbing more skin off his fingertips.  
  
Sherlock came in to find him crouched in the corner furthest from the door, eyes tight shut.  
  
~  
  
John came back to himself in the back of cab, Sherlock sitting close by his side, watchful.  
  
‘Um, I don’t–’  
  
‘You had a moment in the men’s toilet. A flashback?’  
  
‘Oh.’ John blinked slowly. He rubbed his hands together, winced at the sting in his fingers.  
  
‘Perhaps seeing your therapist would be helpful?’  
  
John barked a short laugh at the idea of even  _beginning_  to explain all this to Ella. She’d need her own therapist!  
  
‘I just want to go home,’ he said quietly.  
  
‘We’re nearly there,’ Sherlock said, looking out of the window.  
  
~  
  
John dropped his keys on the kitchen counter, shrugged out of his jacket. Sherlock had followed him in again.  
  
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Sherlock said, walking into the kitchenette and straight away making it seem even smaller.  
  
‘You don’t make tea,’ John objected mildly.  
  
‘I had to learn.’  
  
‘Ah. What was it like, being alone?’ he asked, thinking he really shouldn’t start this now – neither of them was in good shape for dissecting the last six months.  
  
‘I wasn’t, not really. I knew you were alive. I had Mycroft to help me when I needed it, and Molly knew I was still alive. But… you didn’t, and, I understand, John,’ Sherlock replied, leaning against the sink and waiting for the kettle to boil.  
  
John reached across and filled a glass with water, draining it in one go. ‘What do you mean _understand?_ ’  
  
‘I mean. You and Paul – that you have someone in your life, a partner, and–’  
  
‘No. No, no! Sherlock, the trouble with you is, that because you can go around and deduce so bloody much, you don’t bother  _asking questions._  We aren’t lovers, me and Paul. I care about him, but he’s young enough to be–’  
  
‘Your son.’  
  
John swallowed, looked at the aging lino. ‘Yes. He isn’t my equal. He isn’t the one I really wanted. The one I want…’  
  
‘Do you want me, John?’  
  
Sherlock’s voice could break his heart. Again.  
  
‘Let me show you how much,’ John replied, moving into him, his hands on his jaw, his neck. His lips on his cheek, his chin, his nose, his mouth.  
  
Sherlock sighed gustily. John thought of a hot air balloon finally coming to rest on the ground after an epic round-the-world flight.  _All passengers safe and accounted for. Let’s keep it that way._  
  
He pulled at Sherlock’s hand.  
  
‘The tea–’  
  
‘Later,’ John growled. ‘I want you naked, on the bed.’  
  
‘Oh.’  
  
~  
  
There wasn’t much talking. John was okay with that because there was a lot of eye contact, and Sherlock doing just fine deducing what was making John crazy. John was confident enough that he didn’t need to guess what Sherlock would like. It was as if he’d been collecting data all this time, not knowing he would ever use it.  
  
He had Sherlock on his back, right where he’d always wanted him. John half-covered him, stroking and exploring all those places that he’d been imagining since he’d thought him dead.  
  
‘John. John, John,’ Sherlock sighed needily. ‘Please–’  
  
John lifted himself up, angled his hips just so–  
  
‘Oooh,’ Sherlock moaned as their cocks met. Sherlock’s hips lifted in response and John thrust in counterpoint.  
  
‘Mm,’ John agreed completely. He lifted slightly again, tipped his head to tongue at Sherlock’s nipples.  
  
‘Fffu–’  
  
Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s arse, clamping him close as Sherlock shuddered and shuddered. There was a warm slipperiness between them and John laughed softly.  
  
‘You great, big beautiful thing.’ He leaned down and kissed Sherlock on his slack, panting mouth. Sherlock twitched and a lopsided smile appeared on his face. He looked like he’d lost about fifty IQ points.  
  
‘Did you come?’ Sherlock asked in a voice John had never heard before. It was very deep, a little rough and immensely smug.  
  
John shook his head. ‘No. Do you want to watch?’  
  
Sherlock’s smile became even less intelligent. John could learn to love stupid-with-sex-Sherlock.  
  
‘Yes, please.’  
  
Also, well-mannered-with-sex-Sherlock.  
  
John clambered to his knees over Sherlock’s hips, grabbed his cock and stared at him as he stroked himself off. Sherlock divided his time between gazing at John’s eyes and looking down at John’s hand flying over his cock. When his orgasm hit, John fell forward, vision fizzing at the edges. Sherlock’s hands clutched him at each shoulder so that he hung suspended above his torso. John laughed breathlessly.  
  
‘Well held!’ he gasped.  
  
‘Indeed,’ came the droll reply.  
  
John giggled. ‘I made a mess all over you. Sorry.’  
  
‘I like hearing you laugh,’ Sherlock said softly. He helped John move onto his side next to him.  
  
‘I like laughing. With you,’ John said and closed his eyes.  
  
~  
  
Some time later John woke to find Sherlock’s horrid blond hair tickling at his nose. Right. He could do something about that. Tea first, and maybe some toast.  
  
He struggled out from under Sherlock and boiled the kettle again. Had a quick shower and made them both tea and toast.  
  
‘Oy,’ John jabbed a toe into Sherlock’s side.  
  
‘I’m not asleep,’ Sherlock murmured.  
  
‘Course not. Sleep is for us lesser mortals. Here, tea.’  
  
Sherlock wriggled up and took the cup from John. ‘Thank you.’  
  
‘These manners of yours, are they here to stay?’ John asked, hiding a smile behind his cup. He was suddenly very hungry. He grabbed a piece of toast and managed to cram a whole slice in his mouth, washed it down with a swig of tea.  
  
‘If you make it worth my while, perhaps,’ Sherlock replied, a hint of a smirk at the edges of his mouth.  
  
‘Hm, I’ll give some thought to possible incentives. First we have an important mission.’  
  
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. ‘We do?’  
  
John nodded, gulping down another piece of toast. ‘Yes, we do.’ He pointed a finger at Sherlock. ‘You’re coming with me.’  
  
‘Where are we going?’  
  
‘Hah! This time I’m the one not giving any details. Need to know, Sherlock.’ John stood and looked around for his jacket. ‘Get your clothes on.’  
  
Sherlock could move quickly when he wanted to. And he seemed to want to keep John happy right now. John knew he should just enjoy it while it lasted.  
  
John heard a disgruntled noise from behind as he led the way out of the flat. He checked his watch -- they had a walk ahead of them and no time to waste.  
  
Eventually John slowed down and gestured at the small shop-front. ‘This is it.’  
  
Sherlock frowned at him, looked at the window, frowned down at him again. ‘John, I don’t think–’  
  
‘Yeah, I happen to agree with that. Some of the time,’ John interrupted him.  
  
Sherlock huffed in annoyance, opened his mouth to begin a diatribe of abusive observations. John held up his hand with a stern, ‘No. Don’t start. Go inside and shut up.’ He pointed at the doorway for emphasis.  
  
Sherlock shut his mouth, face carefully blank. Back ramrod straight, he stepped over the sill.  
  
‘As I live and fucking breathe – what have you brought in with you, darling?’  
  
The hairdresser strode around Sherlock slowly, looking for all the world as if he was sizing up a prize bull at market.  
  
‘It’s a desperate case, as you can see,’ John said with a thin smile. ‘I can’t stand it any longer.’  
  
‘Well, no. I can see that!’ The hairdresser pinched a lock of Sherlock’s hair between his fingers and rubbed it slowly. Sherlock’s eye twitched as he held consciously still. ‘The fucking  _texture_ , love. It’s fucking criminal!’  
  
He stepped back and shared a commiserating look with John. ‘Whoever picked that colour for his skin tone needs a right thrashing, love. Hope it wasn’t you?’  
  
John shook his head in denial.  
  
‘It was me,’ admitted Sherlock, his bottom lip jutting forward slightly.  
  
The hairdresser eyed him speculatively, glanced back at John and mouthed ‘thrashing’ at him.  
  
John smirked back, enjoying Sherlock’s discomfiture.  
  
One hour later John could look at Sherlock’s hair without grinding his teeth.  
  
Life was definitely improving for one John H. Watson.  
  
  
~end part 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by Luthien.

John went in to work the next day. There were still expenses, the rent, and he’d be paying Sherlock’s money back now that he was alive again. (He still mentally stumbled over the idea of anyone being alive  _again_.) After his shift he went to visit Paul, finding him in that miserable state that was neither well enough to go home nor ill enough to endure a hospital stay without complaint.  
  
‘Cheers, Johnny,’ Paul said as John handed him a bag with some supplies.  
  
He’d included toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as a change of clothes for when Paul was given the all clear. He watched as Paul slowly sorted through the contents and knew exactly when he’d got to the bottom of the bag and found the stack of chocolate bars and the iPod.  
  
‘Fuck me,’ Paul breathed, pulling a bar of chocolate out and gazing at it reverently. ‘You… are a complete rock star, mate!’  
  
John laughed softly and watched in pleasure as Paul peeled off the wrapper and stuffed half the bar in his mouth at once. He chewed in obvious bliss, little moans escaping. It looked enough like oral sex that John suppressed a shiver.  
  
Paul wiped a sticky hand on the bed sheet and took out the iPod, his eyes twitching from the chocolate in one hand and the iPod in the other – clearly unable to prioritise for the moment.  
  
‘You can use the Net on it, and I’ve put some credit on iTunes for you so you can download some music and movies.’  
  
‘Hmm?’ Paul was unable to articulate any more than that, his eyebrows lifting and his mouth bulging. John answered anyway.  
  
‘It’s a present. Just let me, please?’ John said softly. His eyes lifted to the bandage on Paul’s head. ‘That… was down to me.’  
  
Paul tried to shake his head then thought better of it, sighing around his mouthful of chocolate and tilting his head back to rest on the pillows. After a long swallow he said, ‘That bastard who shot me is to blame, John, not you.’  
  
‘If you hadn’t–’  
  
‘Don’t do that.’  
  
John cleared his throat and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Paul dropped the iPod and reached out a hand to him. John gripped it and stroked a thumb over the back of Paul’s knuckles. They sat for a moment just looking at each other.  
  
‘You fucked him, dincha?’  
  
John drew his hand away slowly. ‘You could say,’ he answered. His eyes were drawn to the small cabinet beside Paul’s bed and the business card on top of it.  
  
‘Everything all right now?’  
  
Someone half his age was attempting to counsel him. Maybe it was time to see Ella. ‘It’s complicated,’ he finally said.  
  
‘No fucking shit,’ Paul commented dryly.  
  
‘He wants me back at Baker Street,’ John paused. ‘I can’t,’ he admitted. He stood up and moved to the cabinet, picked up the card.  _‘Mycroft Holmes’_.  
  
‘You need your space, mate. He’s given you a shock.’  
  
John smiled at Paul’s words. His heart gave a sweet squeeze of affection for the boy. ‘You’re a wonder,’ he murmured. He considered the possible ramifications of the business card. Came up with nothing that didn’t fill him with unease.  
  
Paul sniffed haughtily as John drew closer. ‘I fucking know, mate. Fucking saint, I am.’  
  
‘Hm. Now, what’s this all about?’ John asked, holding Mycroft’s business card aloft.  
  
‘Oh, The Brother. He’s a piece of work, in’e?’ Paul said with a hint of a chuckle. ‘Offered me a job if I’m interested after uni.’  
  
‘What?’ John’s mouth hung open.  
  
‘Yeah, he’s some kind of spook. Says I took out one of his guys – I stuffed him in the kitchen cupboard ‘cause I thought he was robbing the place. So, anyway, Mr Suit there says I have  _po-ten-tial_. Bit of a wanker. Must run in the family.’  
  
John was still speechless. He couldn’t decide if he was irrationally proud of Paul for meriting Mycroft’s attention or terrified of him becoming involved with someone like Mycroft.  
  
‘Um,’ was about all he could manage.  
  
‘Years away from deciding, mate. Don’t go peaky on me!’  
  
‘Yes. Right,’ John nodded. That was true. And maybe Mycroft would rethink the offer in that time. Or Paul could move to the Antarctic. ‘Okay.’ He placed the card back on the cabinet. ‘Well, I’d best be off. Call me when they let you out, okay?’  
  
‘I will, mate. Take care of yourself.’ Paul gestured him closer and John leant in close. ‘I want a kiss now, ‘cause it might be the last one,’ Paul whispered, ‘make it a good one, Johnny.’  
  
It didn’t seem a very good idea, but Paul was right: it would be the last time. John gave thanks that Mycroft’s interest in Paul had gifted them with a private room (and a very good neurologist to consult on Paul’s injury) as he moved his lips to cover Paul’s. It was soft and sweet and for the first time it felt wrong. Still…  
  
John darted his tongue out to stroke slowly against Paul’s – flavoured with chocolate, nibbled at his plump lower lip (yes, he would miss it) and finished with a close-mouthed kiss that rubbed lightly over Paul’s lips. John sighed as he drew back and watched Paul’s eyes slowly open. John stood up and smiled a little sadly down at Paul. He stroked his finger lightly down Paul’s cheek and pictured his face in another twenty years. He wanted to be around to see if his vision would be made real.  
  
‘Goodbye, Paul.’  
  
~  
  
It took several weeks, but John fell into a routine again. He went part time at the clinic so that he could join Sherlock on cases more often than not. He hadn’t moved back into Baker Street, something that obviously puzzled Sherlock. It puzzled John too; he didn’t know why he was still holding out – wasn’t it inevitable that he would go back? Should go back?  
  
Sometimes they had sex. If they found themselves at John’s flat then Sherlock would stay the night. He never asked John why the lamp stayed on all night. If they were at Baker Street John would usually dress not long afterwards and go home.  
  
His own actions mystified him. There was something deep inside him that did not want to give ground; something that had wrapped itself tight and quiet and safe, away from everything and everybody. And would never feel loss again. Sometimes, when he looked at Sherlock, John would feel so dizzy that he would have to sit down suddenly. On those occasions Sherlock would say, ‘You need to eat.’ It happened to be true most of the time and John didn’t bother to correct him. They would find a café and John would do his best with bacon and eggs, or pasta, or dim sum. And Sherlock would fiddle with small packets of sugar, sipping coffee and watching John. Watching and watching – not bothering to hide it. And John didn’t bother hiding that he knew he was being watched.  
  
They had reached a delicate detente and John thought that they were both afraid of disturbing the odd peace they had achieved. But it was so good to have Sherlock back, so good to see him, hear him, smell him… and best of all was touching him – in ways he’d never permitted himself before. (Had he even imagined it before? Now he could admit, yes, he had.)  
  
Lestrade had begun calling Sherlock in to consult for him once more and this morning they were standing in the latest victim’s office – if it was a ‘victim’ sitting slumped in the office chair near the lavish polished wooden desk. It might be what it appeared to be: suicide. John’s brow furrowed. That would still make him a victim, wouldn’t it? They just wouldn’t be able to arrest anybody for it. He shook himself a bit, he was starting to drift thanks to a poor night’s sleep. John looked at the back of Sherlock’s head and wondered, for maybe the thousandth time, how he survived on such crap amounts of sleep.  
  
‘Yes, Lestrade, it  _is_  a suicide. However his wife faked her own death seven weeks ago, a traumatic loss that he obviously didn’t have the resilience or strength of character to recover from. Is she complicit in his death? That’s for you to decide.’  
  
What? Strength of character? John suddenly felt too large for his skin.  
  
‘But how do you know Sally Sanders didn’t kill herself? We may not have recovered her body but the SOCO found convincing evidence at the scene, and her therapist gave us supporting testimony along with his case notes,’ Lestrade objected.  
  
‘He lied. No doubt he will relocate his business soon. To the south of France perhaps? And there he will meet a charming woman bearing a strong resemblance to Sally Sanders.’ Sherlock answered, retying his scarf and pocketing his magnifying glass.  
  
‘Well, then why the hell didn’t you tell the police? And why did she go to such bloody trouble?’  
  
‘It didn’t seem any of my business. No one had been murdered. As to her reasons – possibly a bad investment, I really don’t know – didn’t look any further into it. Boring.’ Sherlock dismissed the question airily.  
  
John looked down at the empty bone and flesh shell of something that used to be a successful writer. The room still stank of car exhaust from a complicated rig of hosing that led from the air-conditioning vent back to the garage. It would have taken a long time for him to die, but he would have been unconscious and wouldn’t have suffered.  
  
The number of times John had–  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John began, feeling something surge in his chest cavity.  
  
‘Yes, despite the interesting features, it really is a simple case. Writers are a sensitive lot, I suppose.’  
  
Lestrade gave a disconsolate grunt in acknowledgement.  
  
‘Where the  _fuck_  do you get off?’ John shouted, stepping closer to Sherlock. He panted for a beat. ‘What the hell would you–’  
  
Sherlock froze and gazed at him with wide eyes. Lestrade’s mouth hung open slightly.  
  
John  _saw_  the thought as it entered Sherlock’s head – the reflexive glance at the unfortunate Mr Sanders. Back to John. The pinch between his eyebrows deepening.  
  
‘You’re supposed to be so fucking  _smart!_ ’ John shouted, a humiliating crack in his voice on the last word. He turned and stumbled out of the room, shoving past members of the SOCO team waiting just outside.  
  
~  
  
John pressed a seldom-used number on his phone.  
  
 _‘Hello, this is Ella Thompson.’_  
  
John gasped, trying to get words past the constriction in his throat.  
  
 _‘I can hear you, take your time.’_  
  
John struggled to even out his breathing. Slow in, hold, slow out – all the way out. Yes, better.  
  
‘It’s John Watson,’ he rasped.  
  
 _‘Hello, John,’_  Ella’s calm voice pushed him the final distance back into his head. God, what had he done, or said? He looked around. He was leaning against a tree, in a park somewhere.  
  
‘I don’t know where I am,’ he said in honest confusion. Too spun out to be worried.  
  
 _‘Where was the last place you remember being, John?’_  
  
‘Crime scene. With Sherlock,’ he replied.  
  
 _‘Did something happen there?’_  
  
‘It was a suicide,’ John said, remembering the empty-eyed writer slumped at his desk. ‘A writer,’ he added. ‘You’ll see it on the news tonight.’  
  
 _‘I’ll try to catch it later. What caused you to leave, John?’_  
  
‘He, he said that he – the writer – was weak. He said that losing his wife a few weeks ago, when she took her own life… well, he said he wasn’t strong enough to get over it,’ John said, finishing with a sound that was half disbelieving laugh and half sob. ‘How can he? How? Why would he–’  
  
 _‘Sherlock said that?’_  
  
‘Yes. He. Yes,’ John closed his eyes and leant his head against the tree. ‘I’m so tired, Ella,’ he whispered. ‘So fucking tired.’  
  
 _‘What are you tired of, John?’_  
  
‘Him. Loving him.’  
  
A shadow fell across his face. John opened his eyes and squinted up.  
  
‘You’re in Weatherby Park,’ Sherlock said.  
  
John still didn’t know where the hell he was.  
  
‘About six miles from the late Mr Sanders.’  
  
‘Oh. Ella, I’m okay now,’ John said into the phone.  
  
~   
  
They went back to Baker Street. Not so much a plan as a default setting. Sherlock steered him to the sofa and John collapsed on it without protest. Sherlock sat beside him. John closed his eyes and leant his head back against the cushion. He was aware of Sherlock’s darting glances, could read them in the minute twitches and sounds next to him.  
  
‘If we had been sleeping together before… before–’ He couldn’t say it right now.  
  
‘Before I faked my death.’  
  
John cleared his throat, working past the difficulty. ‘Yes. If we had, would you still have done it?’  
  
John still had his eyes closed. He heard Sherlock shifting on the sofa, guessed he had turned sideways to study John more closely. There was a long moment of silence.  
  
‘I don’t know. If your life was still at stake… I don’t know,’ Sherlock admitted, his voice sounding slightly pained.  
  
John nodded, his head still cushioned by the sofa. ‘Okay.’  
  
‘Okay?’ Sherlock sounded confused and annoyed.  
  
John opened his eyes and turned his head. ‘Yes. You’re not lying to me and you’re not pretending that every question has an absolute answer. And that’s okay.’  
  
Sherlock’s eyes moved in tiny circles as he studied John’s entire face, striving to find clues, no doubt. Trying desperately to decipher John’s innermost secrets. John watched his face and when he saw Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly then narrow just as quickly he knew that he’d finally understood what John had just realised at the crime scene.  
  
‘You think I’m going to do it again,’ he stated in a slow voice.  
  
‘I’m… _afraid_  that you’ll do it again, or something worse,’ John corrected. Statistically, the likelihood wasn’t high. The mere  _possibility_  that he might – that had John in a cold sweat whenever he contemplated it.  
  
‘I’m sorry. About earlier,’ Sherlock said. He licked his lips nervously – John recognised the gesture as one of his own and wondered if Sherlock knew that he’d adopted it. ‘It was thoughtless and I didn’t… think!’  
  
‘I know. That’s okay too.’  
  
‘John!’ Sherlock protested. Though what he was protesting about John couldn’t say.  
  
A breath later and John was on his back, Sherlock a solid weight on top of him and his mouth sliding frantically over John’s. They both angled out of their jackets and buttons were fiddled open quickly. Sherlock stroked his hands over John’s chest, his movements gradually slowing. He pressed his lips flat and sat back slightly, holding himself up by the back of the sofa.  
  
‘I want you to stay with me tonight. Then I want you to pack up your flat and come back to live with me.’ Sherlock’s eyes flicked from John’s face to the coffee table, to the kitchen, to his bedroom door.  
  
John watched his face and battled with that deep hidden part of himself – the one that had been running his life lately. He wanted Sherlock. Wanted him so much. Sherlock hurt him so much. He could feel a sick loop of fearful thoughts forming in his mind. He began to shake his head and stopped. He licked his lips. He nodded.  
  
‘Okay?’ Sherlock said, his brows drawing together and lifting. Still unsure.  
  
‘Yes. Okay.’  
  
~end part 7

  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely Luthien.

It had taken some time to work up to it, but John had finally made the move back to Baker Street. Sherlock was gradually climbing down from being hyper-vigilant around John, and John was slowly settling back into his skin. Sleeping in the same bed every night, and having someone to hold after a nightmare, was helping his insomnia and his peace of mind. If the man you dream about lying shattered in the gutter every night, can demonstrate his continued existence every night then the dreams begin to lose their potency. They had achieved some level of balance with their new lives together and it was way past time that John addressed the outstanding business he had been avoiding for months.  
  
An evolving sense of shame and unexpected revelations had brought him to this place. It was a slightly shabby terrace on the outskirts of London.  
  
John stood in front of the door. The paint was peeling and the bell push hung by a frayed wire. He blinked raindrops out of his eyelashes – the rain more of a heavy mist. No character to it, he thought.  
  
He took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door, considered the tiny paint fragments that were now imbedded in his skin – if only he had a microscope to see them. If one had a certain type of brain, one could no doubt match them to the original paint, to the year of manufacture–  
  
The door opened. ‘John,’ Paul greeted him without inflection, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance.  
  
‘Paul. Hello.’  
  
Paul didn’t invite him in, stood watching him.  
  
John cleared his throat. ‘Just wanted to see how you were,’ he offered, shrugging slightly. A trail of accumulated moisture trickled down his collar.  
  
A figure loomed slightly behind Paul, shadowed in the dim hallway. John saw an arm snake around Paul’s waist from behind, a pale face appeared beside his shoulder.  
  
‘Who is this ugly little man, Paulie?’  
  
John felt his eyebrows twitch upwards as he assessed the young newcomer: shorter than Paul, blond hair, square jaw, pale blue eyes sparking with curiousity and no small amount of potential violence. His accent – posher than Prince William.  
  
John experienced a moment of vertigo. Almost missed what Paul was saying.  
  
‘Leave off, you git. It’s an old mate. Give us a minute, willya?’  
  
The blond boy’s eyes cut away from John to focus on Paul’s face, their slightly wild light changing to a fond, half-lidded expression. ‘Things all right then, Paulie?’  
  
‘Yeah, ‘course, love. Won’t be long,’ Paul reassured him with a small smile. John puzzled over that expression – tried to interpret meaning, but he was still shocked at the appearance of Paul’s new bloke.  
  
‘What are you doin’ here, John?’ Paul asked, hitching a hip against the door frame. Apparently John was not welcome in the house. And better to say things out here.  
  
‘Um, new friend?’ he asked, putting off the moment.  
  
Paul’s expression lost its guarded edge. ‘Yeah, daft bugger. Post-grad, can you believe? Fuckin’ researcher – going to cure Aids, he reckons!’ Paul huffed a chuckle. ‘Don’t know what he sees in  _me_ ,’ Paul added, bafflement clear on his face.  
  
‘I do,’ John said before he could help himself. ‘You’re…’ Damn it, he could feel his throat about to close up. He forged on. ‘You are amazing, Paul.’  
  
‘Look, John,’ Paul frowned, ‘I’m not up for another go ‘round–’  
  
‘No! No,’ John broke in, pulling his hands out of his pockets and holding them up. ‘Christ. I know it’s over, Paul. I’m not trying it on. It’s just, I feel like such a shit, and… I was worried about you,’ he added, putting his hands back in his pockets. He was freezing.  
  
Paul looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. ‘How is he, then?’  
  
John couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘He’s… fine. We’ve been sorting out some things.’  
  
Paul made a chuffing noise with his teeth. ‘Both you fuckers are fucked up.’  
  
John grinned, something in his chest loosening. ‘Yeah, I finally understand just how much.’ His grin fell away, thinking about what he’d put Paul through. ‘I’m sorry for what I did to you.’  
  
Paul’s smile was crooked. ‘Oh. You mean making friends wi’ me, giving me stupid amounts of money, fixing me teeth, getting me health care and an ID card – I still don’t know what you did for a birth certificate, by the way – getting me enrolled in school and paying the rental deposit for this place?’  
  
John’s lips parted, a reply didn’t come to mind. Apparently one was not expected.  
  
‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Johnny,’ Paul’s voice dropped. ‘You just loved a dead man, dincha? What did you think was going to happen when he came back again, like fuckin’ Jesus on the third day?’  
  
John shook his head. ‘You took care of me,’ he insisted.  
  
‘We took care of each  _other_ , John,’ Paul corrected. ‘Even if most of what I did was in bed and most of what you did was sort out me social.’  
  
John stared up at Paul. What had he done to deserve Paul’s brief appearance in his life, at exactly the time when he’d needed it?  
  
‘But I’m not the love of your life, mate. And you aren’t mine.’  
  
John nodded, quick and short. He had absolutely no right to ask, ‘He’s good to you?’ nodding towards the open doorway and the young man inside.  
  
‘Yes. Yeah, he really is. A right twat sometimes,’ Paul answered, fondness curling his lips. ‘But so worth the effort, y’know?’  
  
John smiled, nodded more easily. ‘Yeah, I can understand that. What’s his name?’  
  
‘Terence. Will not accept anything shorter – no Terry, no Tezza, nothing but the whole mouthful,’ Paul smirked.  
  
John flicked his eyebrows up in sympathy. ‘Sherlock’s a bloody mouthful too.’  
  
They shared a grin at the double entendre, Paul biting his lip to suppress his laugh.  
  
John took a step back. ‘Look, I better get going. It was good to see you, Paul.’  
  
‘John, I’m not angry about anything. I just want you to know that.’  
  
John looked down at the stone steps then back up to meet Paul’s eyes. ‘I was a complete bastard and I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you were.’  
  
‘John, mate… we weren’t going to last. Let’s be honest about that – I mean, look at us both. And when he came back, that just made things end quicker. What hurt the most,’ Paul paused, took a step down, though it still didn’t bring him to eye level with John. ‘It hurt that you were ashamed of me.’  
  
‘No, Paul!’ He shook his head, reached out a hand to Paul’s arm. ‘Bloody hell, how could I be? I was ashamed of  _myself_ , Paul.’  
  
‘Yeah, for being with a slag like me.’  
  
‘No. No.’ John shook his head in denial. ‘You were a young man who was vulnerable, who needed some help – not someone like me taking advantage of you. I shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have–’  
  
‘Are you saying that you shouldn’t have fucked me, John? Because if you are saying that, then you’ve got it backwards, mate.’  
  
John could feel the furrow between his brows. ‘What?’  
  
‘You might have been toppin’, John, but I was dead keen on you; I fucked you. I made it happen. My choice all the way, love,’ Paul murmured, his eyes darting from John’s eyes to his mouth and back again. ‘And you were very good. I wouldn’t take anything back.’  
  
John swallowed around a tightened throat. He really was an idiot. How had he ever thought that Paul could be exploited? The boy had an inner core of titanium.  
  
‘What you’re thinkin’ – I’ve had someone do that to me, John. A long time ago. You aren’t even the same species as him.’ Paul reached out a hand, stroked along the outside of John’s arm. ‘No one will ever do that to me again.’  
  
Wordlessly, John caught Paul’s hand with his own, pulled him forward to wrap both arms around him. ‘You take care of yourself, okay?’ John asked, his voice muffled in Paul’s hoodie. He felt Paul’s answering nod and dropped his arms, turned away quickly and walked back down the footpath.  
  
He breathed fast through his mouth, not blinking until he reached the black car parked two blocks away. He sat back against the leather upholstery and stared unseeing out of the window, waiting for his unshed tears to dry. The car moved slowly away from the curb.  
  
‘Are you still going to offer him a position?’ John asked in a tight voice. He reached a hand out to place it on the brown envelope on the seat next to him. His eyebrows drew into a frown as his fingers stroked along the envelope’s edge.  
  
‘He’s already proved himself resourceful, resilient, and surprisingly ruthless against an opponent. And right now he’s demonstrating his inherent intelligence and willingness to learn. Add to that the rather happy coincidence of his attaching himself to a brilliant young researcher and he becomes quite a desirable asset. Is there any reason I shouldn’t employ him, John?  
  
John sighed. ‘Only that I want him to grow old.’  
  
‘Is he any less likely to achieve that state than you and Sherlock? Or even myself?’  
  
John finally looked over at Mycroft, seated beside him in the back of the large car. They held each other’s gaze for a beat. Mycroft’s expression was his habitual faint smile hinting at mockery underneath. John knew his own was a study in bland disinterest while underneath countless questions surged and roiled.  
  
How long did they have? How long did any of them have? As a physician he could make an estimate for Mrs Hudson – with some care and attention given to her chronic conditions – but he and Sherlock, Mycroft and Paul?  
  
John turned back to stare out of the window once more, watching the grey streetscape as they drew nearer to familiar territory.  
  
Baker Street. He had to make his time there  _count_ , however long it was to be. Together they had to make it count. There was something -- someone -- else to think about now. Maybe that would help John to finally let go of his fear of loss. He couldn’t let that fear stop him from happiness with Sherlock. Not now. Sherlock needed him more than ever, and there was never a time when John hadn’t needed Sherlock.  
  
He exited the car after it pulled up outside 221b. Mycroft gave a short salute of farewell and the car disappeared into the traffic. John keyed the lock and walked up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock turned away from the window as John entered the sitting room. No doubt he had been watching Mycroft’s car.  
  
‘You saw him?’ he queried John after replacing his violin in its case. John hung his jacket up, threw the large envelope down on the coffee table, and sat down.  
  
‘Yes, I did.’  
  
Sherlock sat down opposite him. ‘And?’  
  
‘Mycroft is certain, although he has to confirm his date of birth with the adoption people. It’s complicated.’  
  
‘Is he well?’  
  
‘He’s thriving, Sherlock. He has a new boyfriend. Something of a star in biochemical research, I’m told.’  
  
‘He doesn’t know.’ It was a statement, not a question. Nevertheless–  
  
‘No, he doesn’t, and I agree with Mycroft that revealing anything to him, at least right now, would be a mistake. It could be damaging to him at this point.’  
  
‘I want to fucking  _kill_  him,’ Sherlock hissed and stood up, as if he could no longer contain his aggravation.  
  
‘Sherlock,’ John said softly, quietly, knowing the hurt and confusion that Sherlock was experiencing. ‘He’s been dead for years. He can’t hurt Paul any more and he can’t hurt you any more either.’ John stood up and moved behind Sherlock, winding his arms gently around him from behind. ‘Paul has defied all the bad things that have happened to him. He’s strong, smart, generous… and has inherited some  _very_  good looking genes,’ John said, kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck. He was rewarded with a soft snort from the man.  
  
Sherlock turned in his arms. ‘Come to bed with me,’ he murmured, lips beginning to lift at the corners.  
  
‘You know, I think I just might,’ John grinned up at him.  
  
~  
  
John lay curved against Sherlock’s back, his breath coming in soft pants. He gave a sigh replete with satisfaction and stroked his fingers along Sherlock’s still-too-prominent ribs.  
  
‘You have... impressive stamina,’ Sherlock commented in a gravelled voice.  
  
John huffed in amusement. ‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’  
  
‘I haven’t, I...’ Sherlock stopped awkwardly.  
  
John lifted his hand to cup his shoulder. ‘Hm?’  
  
‘I didn’t have sex with anyone. While I was away from you.’  
  
John didn’t know what to say. They hadn’t been  _together_ , certainly not as a couple in the true sense of the word, before Sherlock had staged his death. He felt retrospectively guilty about Paul, but he had thought that to be guilt over taking advantage of someone so much younger than he was. He looked at Sherlock’s tense profile, lips shuttered firmly. John felt guilt for quite a different reason now.  
  
‘I didn’t know he was your brother. But I did see you in him,’ John said softly, his hand firming around Sherlock’s bicep. ‘I think I was trying to get close to you, in a way.’  
  
‘He doesn’t look like me,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘He certainly doesn’t  _sound_  like me.’  
  
John resisted the urge to snigger at Sherlock’s petulant tone. ‘No-o, his accent is all wrong, of course. But, hell! – the arrogance, that’s just like you.’  
  
Sherlock twisted around to look at him, a crease marring his usually smooth brow. ‘Arrogant?’ he queried imperiously.  
  
John grinned. ‘God, yeah. And he’s too bloody tall. Why would I shag someone so stupidly tall. It does my neck no favours at all.’ John’s eyes fell to Sherlock’s pouting lip. ‘And his mouth. Sherlock, do you look in the mirror? You must have noticed the resemblance–’  
  
John’s words were cut off by the very lip he’d been studying as Sherlock finished twisting around to face him and closed his mouth over John’s. Perhaps words were over-rated? They parted eventually to catch their breath. Sherlock peered at him from a distance of two inches.  
  
‘I love you, John Watson.’  
  
Some words were really  _not_  over-rated.  
  
‘I think I can live with that,’ John said.  
  
  
~end

  



End file.
